Thicker Than Water
by tsukinoblossom
Summary: As Harriet Watson's next of kin, John gets a phone call he's been dreading for a while. After getting behind the wheel drunk and ending up in the hospital, Harry swears off alcohol for the last time. But she can't do it alone. Harry, John, Sherlock.


_**Thicker than Water.**_

_**As Harriet Watson's next of kin, John gets a phone call he's been dreading for a while. After getting behind the wheel drunk and ending up in the hospital, Harry swears off alcohol for the last time. But she can't do it alone.**_

_**A few days ago I wrote a drabble referencing Harry's drinking problem, and several comments put a bee in my bonnet about how it's never really expanded upon, which got me to thinking. And somehow, what was meant to be a short one-shot turned into this monstrosity. Oh well.**_

_**Harry-and-John-centric, with brief appearances by Sherlock and a few tiny hints of potential pre-slash. Rated T for swearing and heavy mention/inference of alcohol abuse.**_

* * *

It's a lazy Tuesday afternoon. Sherlock's out, who knows where, and John's enjoying some well-earned peace and quiet. He's sitting in his arm chair with a novel he's been trying to read for a month when his phone rings, startling him to the point of nearly knocking his tea over.

A quick glance at the screen shows a number he doesn't recognise. Worried that Sherlock's gotten himself into some kind of mess again, he answers warily.

"Hello?"

"John Watson?" an unsettlingly impassive woman's voice carries through from the other end.

"Speaking. Can I help you?"

"You're listed as next of kin for one Harriet Watson. Would that be correct?"

John's heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. He may not be fond of Harry at the best of times, but she's his sister. His blood runs cold as he mentally prepares himself for what may be coming.

"Y— yes? Did something happen?"

"Your sister was in an automobile accident. She's alright, but quite banged up." The woman blurts it all out quickly, as though to prevent the assumption that the worst has happened. John feels relieved, but only slightly. He pauses, waiting for her to continue. He knows what's coming. "Her blood alcohol level was more than twice the legal limit at the time of the accident. Would you be able to come to the A&E at the Queen Elizabeth?"

John rubs his eyes, getting out of his chair as he's talking. "Of course, I'll be there as soon as I can."

On autopilot, John walks around the flat collecting his keys and wallet, and without thinking heads upstairs to get his gun before realising that for once, he absolutely doesn't need it. It does remind him that he should let Sherlock know he's heading out though. He pulls his phone out of his pocket as he's running down the stairs. He runs into Mrs. Hudson on the landing.

"Heading out, Mrs. Hudson. Not sure when I'll be back. Keep an eye on Sherlock for me when he gets in, would you?"

"Yes dear, have a good time, wherever you're headed." John sighs, wondering if he should correct her, but decides against it. No use getting her worried for nothing.

He stands inside the door and sends Sherlock a quick text.

_Heading to the hospital. Harry. Don't ask, don't wait up._

He waits a moment for an answer, but none is forthcoming. Whether Sherlock is busy, apathetic, or just unsure about how to answer, John isn't sure, but he doesn't have time to worry about it just now. He heads out the front door and hails a cab.

The cab ride passes by in a blur, John jumping out as soon as the taxi pulls up at the unloading area. He tosses some money at the driver and ducks inside, making his way to the A&E in a haze. He must look lost and distraught, because the woman at the front desk smiles kindly at him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"My sister. Harry. Uh, Harriet Watson. Someone phoned me?" John shakes his head, trying to clear the cotton batting from between his ears. The receptionist takes pity on him, stepping out from behind the counter and placing a hand on his arm in a way he assumes is meant to be comforting.

"Come with me, Mr. Watson."

"Dr. Watson" The words slip out on instinct, fuzzy and formulaic.

"Very sorry, Doctor. Come along."

She guides him through the large sliding doors, steering him down a brightly-lit, unpleasantly antiseptic hallway that opens up on a large ward, sectioned off by a series of putrid yellow curtains. John's all too familiar with this sort of environment, between miscellaneous locum work and his and Sherlock's chosen extra-curricular activities, but he'd only recently managed to convince himself that Harry was past all this. The woman stops in front of one of the curtained-off segments and John steels himself before she draws open the curtain.

He's not sure what he was expecting, but John feels a flood of relief when he sees Harry, wide awake and alert. Her face is a livid road map of cuts and bruises, and her left arm is in a brace of some sort, immobilised against her torso, but aside from that she's looking surprisingly all right. She smiles at John, almost sheepishly, and he feels his temper rising.

"Harry, what the hell were you thinking? Last time we spoke you told me things were under control, and now I get a call that you GOT BEHIND THE WHEEL OF A CAR WHILE YOU WERE DRUNK?" John's voice gets progressively louder until he's shouting, but he doesn't care who hears. She should be embarrassed, maybe it will make her stop and think.

"I…" she pauses, bites down on her lower lip, and winces when she pops open a cut on her mouth. "I didn't think I was that bad. I needed…"

"Where did you possibly need to go while you were drunk?" The flush over her cheeks tells John everything he needs to know - she was heading to the off-license. He drops into the awful squeaky plastic chair next to her bed, letting his face fall into his hands.

"It's not so bad, John. I hit a pole. Nobody got hurt."

"Harry, look at you! Don't bloody tell me nobody got hurt."

"Nobody else. Nobody important."

At this, John's heart twinges slightly, and his face softens. He reaches out, taking Harry's good hand in his. "You are important, you great idiot." They sit in silence for a while, still holding hands, until the painkillers take over and she nods off again. John isn't sure what's expected of him, what he should do, so he hovers for a moment before a handsome young man in a white coat steps in behind the curtain.

"Mr. Watson?"

"Doctor Watson." It's instinctual, but he also hopes the acknowledgement of his education will prevent this other doctor from sugarcoating things.

"Sorry, Dr. Watson. I'm Dr. Krupka, I'm overseeing your sister's case. Can we speak for a moment?"

"Of course." John follows him outside into the main area of the ward, letting Harry sleep in peace and quiet.

"I'll be blunt. Your sister was incredibly lucky. Part of her face hit the steering column and she's quite banged up, and her collarbone is quite badly broken, but aside from that all we've got to worry about is some scrapes and bruised."

John nods. "That's not why you called me here, is it?"

Dr. Krupka sighs, fidgeting nervously with the badge pinned to his coat.

"Your sister's alcoholism - is this a recent development?"

"Sadly, it's not. It's been on and off since we were teenagers, if I'm being honest with myself. Whenever our parents fought with each other, whenever she fought with either of them… When things got tough for her in uni. She's always been prone to drowning her troubles. Her partner left her about two years back, and it's been getting worse since then."

"We did some bloodwork, and an ultrasound. Her liver's already in terrible shape and she's only in her late thirties. Has she made any attempts at dealing with her addiction?"

"Not proper ones." John's shoulders slump, defeated. "She'll just go cold turkey and not drink for a stretch of a few months, but as soon as something bad happens, she's at it again."

"Well, we're thinking of admitting her for a couple of weeks, until her collarbone heals sufficiently for her to function alone, and clearly she'll be without any source of alcohol for that period. Since she was in an automobile accident and damaged public property while under the influence, she'll have to appear in court but I think they'll be lenient, since no bystanders were involved. However, I'm going to suggest - and I suspect the judge will force the issue - that your sister join Alcoholics Anonymous. Once she leaves the hospital, is there anyone who can stay with her, help her adjust, keep an eye on her?"

"You're asking me to become my sister's keeper…" John closes his eyes, briefly. He's already the primary caregiver for one overgrown toddler, surely he can help his sister out for a week or two. He shudders slightly, thinking of the disasters Sherlock will get up to while he's unsupervised, but she's family, and she needs him. "Sure, I think I can stay with her for a week or so."

"We'll deal with the worst here - clearing the last of the alcohol out of her system won't be pretty, but you know that already."

John nods. It's certainly not something he specialised in, but back at the clinic, and especially back in Afghanistan, he's seen enough people deal with the unpleasant detox of chronic alcohol abuse to know the toll it can take on the body.

"She'll be in a fragile state for a while as well - it's not my place to force the issue, but it might be best if she had someone to accompany her to her court date."

"Not a problem."

"It's getting late, Dr. Watson. She'll probably sleep through the night, and we'll monitor her. Go home, we'll call you if anything changes. In the meantime, it might be good for morale if she had a visitor or two a couple of times while she was here."

"I'm sure I can manage that. Can I just see her before I leave?"

Dr. Krupka nods, and John sticks his head back into the curtained alcove, where Harriet's sleeping that peaceful, still slumber that only narcotics can bring on. With a deep breath, he turns on his heel and heads for home.

* * *

John feels incredibly heavy as he trudges up the stairs, and he's dreading dealing with Sherlock. He gets to the landing and debates just going straight up to his bedroom but he's hungry, so he heads into the kitchen instead. Sherlock's sitting at the table, fussing with a small pipette and a slide, but when John walks in he looks up.

"All right, John?" He sounds genuinely concerned, which John finds more than a bit confusing. With a groan, John lowers himself into one of the chairs, propping his head up with one hand.

"I'm not sure, Sherlock, but thank you for acting concerned. She got drunk and got into an accident, but she's not too seriously hurt and she didn't hurt anyone else."

The look on Sherlock's face is an unexpected mixture of hurt and irritation. "John, I may not care about Harry, but…" He hesitates, scraping at the glass slide with a small scalpel. "I am concerned about you. You are my friend, aren't you?"

"Of course I am, Sherlock. Thank you, really. I'm sorry I accused you of acting. This reaction, it's just not what I was expecting when I got home."

"Have you eaten yet, or have you been at the hospital all evening? We should order something."

John shakes his head. He must really look a wreck if there's that much of a role reversal - if Sherlock's the one insisting he eat.

"Yeah, I'm starved. Indian?"

Sherlock grins and holds up his mobile, already in the process of ringing the closest restaurant.

Twenty minutes later they're sitting on the sofa, takeaway in hand. Sherlock's relaxed, picking at some naan, but John is just staring distractedly into his vindaloo.

"Sherlock, I'm going to need to go stay with her."

"Why? Isn't the hospital taking good enough care of her?"

"No, when they release her. Make sure she doesn't hurt her collarbone any worse, and make sure she doesn't relapse. Probably a couple of days, maybe even a week."

Sherlock tenses, looks like he's about to debate, but John just holds his hand up, effectively silencing him.

"Please don't argue with me about this, Sherlock. You're a grown man, you can take care of the flat by yourself for a few days. Mrs. Hudson will make sure you eat enough and don't smoke too much, I'm sure. And I'll have my phone, you can always text or call me if you really do need me."

The crease at the bridge of his nose makes it clear that Sherlock isn't particularly pleased about the idea, but he nods. "You need this, don't you, John?"

"She needs this. But, yes, I think I do too. She's my sister, and as much as she drives me crazy, it scared me when I thought I might lose her. She's the only family I've got left. Besides, it won't be for a few weeks yet, they're keeping her admitted for a while. Her collarbone needs to heal, and she needs to get the booze out of her system."

"Alright. I'll do my best to stay out of trouble." The grin on Sherlock's face makes it quite clear that he has no intention of doing anything of the sort, and John can't help but smile before taking a bite of his vindaloo. It's warm, and delicious, and suddenly his appetite is back.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I mean it." Sherlock just smiles and nods, and they finish their meal in companionable silence.

* * *

John drops in on Harry several times over the course of her recovery, and most of the visits go well, if quietly. She's lost her spark, the simmering short fuse she's had for so long, and tends to just lie in the hospital bed and look defeated until John gets tired and leaves her to wallow.

One day though, John's out with Sherlock and they decide to pay her a visit together.

"FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU ALL!" Harry's voice, shrill and rough, carries out into the hallway, punctuated by a crash that John recognises as a metal bedpan hitting a wall. He can only hope it was empty at the time. Leaving Sherlock in the hall, he runs into the room. He studies his sister - her hair is greasy and lank, her skin sallow and puffy, and the bruising on her face seems worse than it did last time he saw her. She's clearly exhausted, and unused to dealing with this much discomfort without self-medicating.

"Harry, Harry, what's wrong? I'm here." He steps over the clutter on the floor, noting gratefully that the bedpan was, indeed, empty when she hurled it at someone.

"Fat lot of good you are, _Johnny._" The way she says his name is a barb, deep in his side. Bitter and angry. "All you've done is side with them, abandon me here. Can't even be arsed to take care of your poor sick sister." She glares at the orderlies and the nurse, who back away and nod at John, leaving him to deal with the mess.

"Harriet, it's for your own good. You know that. Your collarbone still isn't healed."

"Fuck off, John. You know why they're keeping me here. Can't you smuggle me in a bottle of something?"

"You know I'm not going to do that."

"Well then you're as much of a useless idiot as the rest of them."

Sherlock's lurking in the doorway, but at this last outburst he charges to the foot of Harry's bed. He grips the rails of the bed-frame, knuckles white with barely suppressed fury, and lashes out at her.

"Harriet Watson, if anyone in this family is a useless idiot, it's you. You don't deserve the patience and kindness he's been giving you, but he's too much of a good man to tell you to sod off." He turns on his heel, coat flaring out behind him, and marches back out of the room. John cringes sheepishly, but when Harry glares at him too, it's obvious he's being dismissed so he follows Sherlock out into the hallway.

"Sherlock, what the hell was that about? She's been under a lot of stress…"

"She was out of line, John." Sherlock purses his lips irritably.

"Yes, well, thank you for gallantly defending my honour in there, but I'm a big boy, and I can take care of myself." John turns his back on Sherlock and jabs the elevator button, repeatedly and angrily. The cab ride home is tense and quiet, and when they get home John marches straight up to his bedroom, without so much as a second glance at Sherlock.

He throws himself angrily onto his bed, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. Sighing, he debates going down to apologise. Sherlock meant well, of course he did. He should have known better, but then, it is Sherlock after all. When has he ever felt the need to hold his tongue in a tense social situation, unless it benefited him directly? John rubs his face and sits up, preparing himself for a long march down the stairs.

When he gets to the main floor, Sherlock is sitting at the table in the living room, staring intently at John's laptop.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I appreciate what you said in there, and I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm just under a lot of stress."

Sherlock nods at John, a small half-smile on his face, and all is forgiven. Without thinking twice, John crosses the living room and rests his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Can I get you something? Tea, coffee? When was the last time you ate?"

"Mm? No, thanks, I'm fine."

John nods and heads over to his armchair, settling down to hopefully unwind a bit in front of the telly.

* * *

The next time John visits Harry, it's because Dr. Krupka has called and let John know that she's ready to be discharged. He tosses a few clean shirts and pants into a bag, along with his toothbrush and shaving kit, and leaves a note for Sherlock, who is nowhere to be seen. Hopefully he remembers their prior conversation about John staying with her, but John decides to send him a text later just in case.

He takes the tube to the hospital, the trip is quiet and uneventful. He gets to the hospital and hesitates in the lobby for a few minutes before heading up to Harry's room, grabbing a packet of the revolting prawn cocktail Walkers' she likes from a vending machine on the way. He knocks quietly on the door, hearing Dr. Krupka's voice from within.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. We were just finishing up in here, come in."

"Hey, John." Harry waves half-heartedly with her good arm. "Just waiting for them to cut off my lovely plastic jewelry so I can escape."

John chuckles, smiling at the doctor and Harry. Dr. Krukpa hands him a sheaf of papers; physiotherapy exercises, instructions on wound cleanliness, a prescription for some mild painkillers, and tucked discreetly between some of the other papers, a pamphlet for AA. John nods subtly, but the gesture is not lost on his sister, who glares at the pile of documents.

"Care and feeding of your useless drunkard?"

"Harry…" John's tone is a mixture of warning and exasperation, and thankfully she shuts up. A nurse bustles in and removes her hep-lock, bandaging her up before cutting off the hospital bracelet.

"There you are, luv. Free to go." She smiles and pats Harry's hand, nodding at John as she steps out.

Dr. Krupka turns and looks earnestly at Harry. "I'm leaving you in your brother's capable hands, and I do not want to see you in here again. Your collarbone is healing well, and your most recent blood panels were very promising. Your blood is nice and clean again, and your liver enzymes seem to be balancing out. I think if you can seriously get this under control now, there won't be any serious permanent damage." He pauses, as though he's looking for the right words. "I'm not going to be condescending and tell you how brave you will be, how strong you are. I'm just going to tell you that you need to do this."

Harry looks resigned as she pushes herself off the bed with one arm.

"I know, doc. I need this. I'm ready."

John shakes the doctor's hand and puts his other one comfortingly on Harry's back.

"Thank you, doctor. We'll be in touch, but hopefully with good news."

Harry makes quick work of signing the discharge papers, clearly eager to be out of the hospital once and for all, and nearly drags John to the elevator bank by the sleeve. She's quiet during the ride down, but obviously excited to finally be heading home. They get to the exit, and between the two bags of clothing and Harry's arm still in a brace, John flags down a cab.

They slide into the back, and ride in peace and quiet for a while until Harry blurts out. "God, I need a drink."

John freezes in the seat next to her. "Harriet Elspeth Watson, I did not just hear you say that."

She cringes, pulling away from him and leaning against the taxicab's door frame.

"It was a joke, John. Ease up."

"If you want me to help you, stay with you while you sort yourself out, you're not going to be flippant about this."

Harry stares petulantly at the small screen blaring out advertisements behind the driver's seat, but nods slightly. "I'm sorry."

John exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. If nothing else, at least living with Sherlock has helped with his patience. Harry looks as though she's about to say something else, but the taxi pulls up in front of her building and they pay and step out without saying another word.

They ride up the elevator to Harry's floor in a silence that's not quite awkward but not quite friendly either. John occupies himself by reading all the photocopied fliers and notices taped onto the walls while Harry makes quick work of the bag of crisps John had forgotten in his pocket. Apparently someone in the building is giving away kittens, and someone else is selling a piano. Idly, he finds himself wondering what Sherlock would do with a piano. Or kittens. Shuddering, he turns back to the door as the elevator dings and opens up.

He's got Harry's bag of pyjamas from the hospital and his own overnight bag, so he lets her deal with the door. He dumps his bag next to the sofa-bed and carries Harry's into her bedroom before heading into the kitchen. She's standing in the middle of the room, rubbing the stained lino with her toes and looking lost. The flat smells stale, nobody's been in it for nearly three weeks, and there's some spoilt apples on the counter. John bins the fruit and pulls the fridge open, looking for something to eat. It's nearly empty, and he sighs, closing the door.

"Christ, Harry, don't you have anything decent to eat in this flat?" John opens the fridge door again, as if somehow this time it won't just have some mouldy Stilton and a bottle of cocktail olives of questionable origin in it. Even Sherlock seems to have a better grasp on keeping himself fed than she does.

She shrugs dismissively. "Haven't had time to do the shopping. Or the inclination."

John raises an eyebrow, heading towards the cabinet where she tends to keep the booze. Unsurprisingly, it's got everything in it from the dregs of a bottle of 18 year old Ardbeg to a few sticky bottles of Buckfast and awful cans of cheap white cider.

"Or the funds, apparently. Harry… we're getting rid of all this." He pulls all the bottles out of the cabinet and lines them up on the counter, next to the sink.

"Do you want me to do this, or do you think you can help me out?"

Harry's face is pale, clammy. Clearly the temptation of being this close to all the bottles is proving difficult for her. Awkwardly, she smiles at John. "I think I'd rather go to my room for a bit, have a lie-down."

John nods. He was expecting as much. "I'm going to take care of this, then run to the Tesco's down the street and grab a few things." Harry gets up from the kitchen table and shuffles slowly into her bedroom, while John begins methodically pouring the contents of all the bottles down the kitchen sink. When he gets to the scotch, he feels a twinge of wastefulness and debates drinking it himself for a moment before thinking back to his sister, and stoically dumps it down the drain as well. The kitchen smells unpleasantly boozy, a mix of odours that brings him back to horrible house parties back when he was in school. Thinking of what the smell must be doing to Harry, he opens the window over the sink wide, letting in a rush of fresh air.

He sticks his head into Harry's bedroom, she's lying in bed reading a magazine. "I'm heading out, I'll be back soon. Call me if you need anything at all." Or if you feel like drinking, he thinks. Doesn't say it, but they both know what he means.

When he gets out onto the street, he fishes his phone out of his pocket.

_Hey Sherlock. Sorry I've been gone so long. She's doing okay, if you care. I'll be home in a few days, after her court date._

_Hurry up. Lestrade is useless, the skull is useless. I need you back here to do my job. -SH._

Nice to know where he sits in Sherlock's priorities. Shrugging, he stuffs the phone back into his pocket and heads off to the supermarket.

* * *

The first few days go relatively smoothly. Harry's as placid as John's seen her in a long time, content to putter around the flat watching telly or reading the papers. They orbit around each other in a way that just seems to work - sometimes talking, sometimes not. John finds himself musing that this must be what living with someone is like for most people. People who don't have a flatmate with no regard for personal space or health and safety. Despite it all, he misses Sherlock.

As if it's clearly painted across his face, Harry lets out a low chuckle.

"You miss him, don't you? God knows why, he's a bloody insufferable git and you'd think you'd appreciate the vacation."

"He's not _always_ an insufferable git, Harry. He's intelligent, and he can be brave, caring, even thoughtful, when he thinks nobody's watching."

"So when are you going to tell him?" She smirks.

"Tell him what?"

"That you're in love with him, you clot."

"I am not in love with Sherlock!" John flushes and makes an attempt to change the subject. "Harry, when was the last time you washed your hair? It's a bloody rat's nest."

She scowls. "I tried when I first got home… It's my bloody collarbone. Makes it hard to get my both my hands up over my head." The undertone of _and I don't fucking care right now_ is clearly evident in her voice, but neither of them say anything.

"Why don't you let me help?"

"Ew, John! No!"

"For pete's sake, Harry. Isn't that why I'm here? I'm a doctor, and besides, I saw you naked loads of time when we were little. Trust me, it's not particularly exciting for me either." He rolls his eyes, smiling. "Or if it bothers you that much, you can wear a swimsuit or something and sit in the tub. If I have to look at that tangle much longer, I'm pretty sure I'll turn to stone."

Harry huffs, her lower lip protruding and forcing the air upwards, into her bangs. The fact that they barely move merely supports John's argument.

"Fine, fine. Give me a few minutes to go settle in, I'll call you."

When she finally does shout his name down the hall, John's lost in thought, nearly forgotten what he's just agreed to do. He sticks his head into the bathroom and bursts out laughing at the sight of his sister sitting in a tubful of water and bubbles, wearing an over-large cotton nightshirt with a duck on the front in an attempt to keep herself decent.

"Honestly, Harry, I couldn't give a flying fuck about your breasts, but if that makes you feel better, so be it." He grins and sits down on the toilet lid, shower attachment in one hand. They sit in peace and quiet while he thoroughly washes her hair - twice - with the practised efficiency only a man with both medical and military backgrounds can have. Carefully, he avoids the network of cuts and bruises on her forehead, all while checking that they're healing reasonably well.

"Conditioner?"

"Nah, not like I'm going anywhere important for a while. Who do I need to be pretty for anyway?" That familiar undercurrent, bitter and more than a bit sad, is back. John frowns, but again says nothing.

"Alright then, c'mon. Let me help you up." He lifts her up carefully, getting soaked in the process. The sleep shirt, now also soaked, clings to Harry in a way that feels more obscene than had she just been nude, and John looks away, giving her a moment to dry off and cover herself with a towel.

"Thanks, John. I mean it. I'm fine now. I'll go get dressed, maybe we can go to the pub on the—" She cuts herself off as John feels a look of fury cross his face. "I mean… for a hamburger or something. It's close, and… ugh…" She hides her face in her hands and sits heavily on the edge of the bathtub. She shudders and sucks in a low breath, and John can tell she's trying not to break down.

"Harry, I'm sorry. I know you didn't mean it that way. I just think it's a better idea if we just avoid temptation right now. There's a new noodle place on the corner, I noticed it when we arrived. Why don't we go check that out?"

She looks up at him, her face red and blotchy, and smiles a wavery smile, nodding.

* * *

Two days later, the small amount of food John bought when they first got back has run out, and he realises it's time to take another trip to the supermarket. Harry's still asleep, so he leaves a note on the kitchen table and heads out to buy some staples and a few snacks to try to encourage her to eat a bit more. When John gets back to the flat an hour later, it's uncomfortably silent. No sound of the television or radio, no shuffling in the kitchen. It's after noon, surely even Harry isn't still asleep.

"Harry? Harriet?" No response. He drops his bag by the front door and runs down the hall, towards her bedroom, when the familiar smell of alcohol assaults him from the kitchen. In a panic, he pushes the door open, and what he sees causes his heart to jump into his throat.

She's lying on the floor, whimpering quietly, surrounded by a mess of broken bottles and puddles of booze. John runs across the floor, thankful he hadn't bothered to remove his shoes as the glass crunches under his foot, and drops to her side.

"Harry, no… I thought we got rid of it all." His voice sounds alien and anguished, even in his own ears.

"It's not what it looks like, John." Her eyes are clear, her breath smelling faintly of peanut butter, not alcohol. "I came in to get a snack… but I wanted a drink. I wanted it so badly, John. I had a second cabinet, one you didn't know about. I really wanted to." He sighs, rubbing her back as she sits up, leaning heavily against him. "My arm. My collarbone. I couldn't unseal that bottle." She gestures to a shattered jug of cheap vodka, the metal screw cap still sealed. He strokes her back, soothingly. "I got angry. I threw it against the wall. And damn it, Johnny. It felt good."

He feels a pang at her using his childhood nickname without a trace of malice, for once. Like it was when they were little, before everything went to shit.

"It felt good, to be in control of it for once. So I did it again. Just kept smashing them. That's really all of it. I'm sorry…"

"Harry, I'm really proud of you. I'm not happy that you were dishonest, and I'm not happy that the only reason you didn't have a drink is that you couldn't open the bottle, but you beat the temptation. Now c'mon, let's get you cleaned up."

Gently, mindful of her bad arm, he lifts her up off the ground, dusting broken glass off her leg as she stands. He guides her into her bedroom and turns the telly on, channel-surfing until he finds an old repeat of Ground Force.

"There we go, Harry. Remember when we used to watch this together and get all excited about Charlie not wearing a bra? Look at those perky little nipples!" This finally earns him a laugh. "I'm gonna go tidy up the kitchen. Call me if you need me?" He's heading down the hall when her voice pulls him back.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. Again. I seem to be saying that a lot, lately." She mumbles.

"Doesn't make it any less nice to hear it."

* * *

The morning of Harry's court date looms early and dreary. John showers quickly and gives himself a perfunctory shave - after all his appearance is secondary here. He lets Harry sleep in as late as possible before prodding her awake and herding her into the shower. She changes three times before she's content, eventually settling on the first suit she tried on.

"You look fine, Harry. Come on, this will be fine. It was your first offence, there were no bystanders involved. All you did was bang up a lamp standard. Now hurry up, or we'll be late."

The hallway outside courtroom is crowded and noisy, several traffic cases being handled in a row. This is nothing like the cases John's attended with Sherlock, with series of witnesses, multiple solicitors, all heavy and sombre and solid. The folks here all look tired and haggard, one woman's even got a toddler in tow. Harry won't stop fidgeting, making the entire bench vibrate, so John leans over and places one warm, solid hand on her knee, and she calms instantly. He looks sidelong at her, worrying one of her fingernails, and realises this is the first time he's seen her look genuinely repentant over the outcome of one of her binges. She remains silent but grips his hand gratefully.

Eventually, their case is called, and John follows Harry into the courtroom, which is little more than a small office with a bored-looking barrister behind a desk. His jaw is set firmly, severe, but his eyes seem warm enough, which gives John some hope. Since he's only there for moral support, he sits quietly in a row of chairs along the back wall.

"Ms. Watson, you are charged with being in charge of a motor vehicle with excess alcohol causing property damage. Do you understand the charges?"

She just nods, fussing with the hem of her blouse.

"I see here that this was your first incidence of an accident like this, is that correct? However, you have a history of alcohol abuse?"

"Yes." Her voice is dry and timid, so uncharacteristic John wants to go up there and hug her, but he stays put.

"Typically, the fines for this sort of thing can reach up to twenty-five hundred pounds. However, since this was your first time, and the property damage was minimal, I think five hundred pounds is reasonable. Would you agree?"

Harry squawks and quickly stammers out an apology.

"However…" he pauses, giving his words further gravity. "I want to ensure this doesn't happen again. I am taking ten points off your license, and I am going to insist you attend meetings of a support group to curb your drinking problem. The clerk at the front desk will have resources for you if you need them. You can also pay your fine there."

"Thank you, sir."

He nods, and with that, she's dismissed. John walks up to her, and her relief is palpable. They step out of the room together, and she's hit with a case of the giggles.

"See, Harry? That wasn't so bad at all."

"John, where am I going to get five hundred pounds?"

John runs through some quick mental calculations before offering. "I can spot you the money, Sherlock's had a number of good cases come through lately. And this way, instead of being tempted to buy more booze, you can save what you would have spent and pay me back. Now let's go home."

* * *

Harry's resting in her room. John's in the middle of scrubbing the bathroom floor (because God knows when Harry last did it herself) when his phone buzzes.

_Bored. -SH_

_Not now, Sherlock. I'm busy._

_I miss you. -SH_

John grins, for what feels like the first time all week.

_I miss you too, but she needs me right now._

_I need you. -SH_

And with that, the smile is gone. Of course Sherlock would be selfish right now. Sighing, John just puts the phone down, not bothering to reply. A few minutes later, it beeps again.

_I'm sorry, John. I will leave you be, unless there's an emergency. Good luck. -SH_

Stunned, John stares at the screen for a moment before realising he should probably send a reply_._

_Thanks, Sherlock. For understanding. I'll be home soon, I promise. She's doing much better._

It feels good to be able to say that about her without having to lie, for once. He tucks the phone back into his pocket and resumes cleaning. He hears Harry's voice carrying from her bedroom, where she seems to be talking to someone. Dropping the wet rag into the sink, John heads across the hall and sticks his head into his sister's bedroom, where she's standing in front of her mirror, apparently practising a speech. She notices him in the reflection and stops abruptly.

"Everything all right, Harry? I heard you talking, just wanted to check on you."

Her cheeks are flushed, but she merely looks embarrassed, not guilty. "Uhm, uh, yeah. Nothing important. Sorry. How's the loo?"

"Much better, but then anything would be better than the state you left it in. I'm not sure I want to know why there was toothpaste on the wall behind the toilet."

She cringes, as if the memory is an unpleasant one, and John doesn't push the issue.

"Sherlock interrupted me a couple of times though, I think he's getting testy. Could I borrow your laptop to Skype? Just make sure he hasn't burned the sofa or anything?"

Harry smirks knowingly. John couldn't care less about the sofa, he just needs to check on Sherlock.

"Sure, sure." She nods in the direction of her vanity, buried under piles of clothing and magazines. John carefully extricates the laptop, doing his best to prevent an avalanche of clutter, and smiles gratefully. He gets himself settled on the couch with her laptop and a mug of tea before logging in and calling Sherlock, who answers immediately, his face looming larger-than-life on screen. He's leaning too close to the camera, as usual. John can't help but smile.

"Eager to talk to me, were you?"

Sherlock huffs into the camera. "I was already using your laptop when the call came in."

"Why can't you use your own laptop?" John tries to scowl around his own laughter, and fails.

"Yours was easier. How's your sister?"

"Much better, thank you for asking. Have you destroyed the flat yet?" Sherlock looks sheepish and John can see him glancing at something off-camera. "No, you know what? Never mind. I'll find out when I get home."

"When are you coming home, anyway? It's boring here without you."

John smiles again, despite himself. "I'll be home soon. Try and make sure there's something in the fridge when I get back." Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but John cuts him off. "Something edible, please. Something that didn't come from a human body. I should get going, but I'll text you when I'm heading home, you git. Make sure you've got trousers on."

"See you soon, John."

John disconnects and shuts the laptop lid, content.

* * *

It's been a week already, and after the court date, Harry seems much more at peace with her surroundings than usual. John thinks this must be some sort of progress and starts wondering how to broach the subject of him returning home. He's sitting at the kitchen table reading the news when she comes looming up behind him.

"John…"

John looks up from the newspaper, and studies Harry's face, really studies it, for the first time in a while. The bruises have faded to a dull mottle of plum and chartreuse, and the scrapes across her cheek are healing. But under all that, she looks alert. She looks awake. Most shocking, though, is the fact that she looks _happy_. John doesn't think he's seen her look so content in years now.

He smiles at her. "Yeah?"

"I was thinking, maybe it's time you head home. Sherlock won't stop texting you."

As if on cue, John's phone buzzes, but he ignores it for the time being.

"Are you sure? I don't mind sticking around if you still need help."

"Yes, you do." She grins, and for once it's warm and open, without a trace of the sarcastic bitterness he's used to.

"You're right." He stares into his mug. "I miss Sherlock, though god knows why. It seems like lately all I do is play nursemaid to adults. What do you think you'll do once I'm gone?"

She looks out the window over the kitchen sink, studying the world going by for a moment before answering.

"I was thinking I'd tidy the place up a bit," she rubs at a stain on the table, as if in emphasis, "and start going to my meetings. Thought maybe I'd adopt one of those kittens from the apartment downstairs. And…" she blushes, and suddenly she looks ten years younger. "I was thinking, maybe I'd call Clara."

John reaches across the table, stilling her hand with his.

"I think you're going to be fine, Harry." And for the first time in as long as he can remember, he really means it.


End file.
